


Queen of the North

by louisaeve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisaeve/pseuds/louisaeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark is no longer the smiling, polite girl who blushed over the old Prince Joffrey or who stammered and curtseyed in front of the former Queen Cersei. She no longer wishes for fancy ballgowns and sits and painstakingly sews, she no longer recites songs of knights and ladies and honour, no longer giggles over shirtless Ser's. </p><p>She is of the North. She is the North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warrior Princess

Sansa Stark is no longer the smiling, polite girl who blushed over the old Prince Joffrey or who stammered and curtseyed in front of the former Queen Cersei. She no longer wishes for fancy ballgowns and sits and painstakingly sews, she no longer recites songs of knights and ladies and honour, no longer giggles over shirtless Ser's. 

Instead she is North itself. She is ice and snow and the godswoods and fireplaces all at once. She has retaken the North, become as cold and silent and polite and cool as she need to be and she will bring the all home, all the Starks in the lands, dead and alive and she will lock them away in Winterfell, throwing away the keys and vowing to never be alone. 

* * *

**One**  

Arya comes back first in a surprising turn of events. 

Sansa and Arya were never close as children - naturally their personalities clashed and it wasn't helped by their Septa and Lady and Lord Stark pushing the pair of them together. And yet Arya comes with a sword on her hip, in breeches and a tunic and Nymeria beside her, storming into the castle and fixing the guards a glare when they ask her name. Like they're stupid. 

Sansa is summoned from her chambers, Mya whispering frantically that a girl has a arrived, a girl with dark hair who is demanding an audience. 

The two quickly pull a dress around Sansa's body and brush her hair, deciding there is simply not enough time and let it hang limply. They'd like to get to bed sometimes that night. 

Ser Brienne meets them as she is about to enter the Great Hall where Sansa said she'd meet with the unexpected guest who for some reason the guards had let through. With a raised eyebrow the guards opened the newly built wooden halls for the Queen of the North and Sansa walks into the room, the grey of her dress trailing behind her, creating a rustling shadow. At the end of a hall stood a group of guards and a small figure in dark. 

"I am Sansa Stark, Queen and Protecter of the North. Who asks to be seen?" Sansa demands, her voice cold and dominant in the room. 

"Your Grace," the voice sounds almost amused, and Sansa's eyes snap up as the figure walks forward and she takes in the small frame and critically eyes the figure. 

"A . . . Arya?" she asks, and curses herself for being weak in the same gasp. 

And yet a smile takes over the face of the sister she once knew (she's taller now, and her smile looks more pleasing on her face, and her hips and bust have bloomed and yet at the same time she's _Arya_ ). 

And then they've wrapped their arms around each other, the warrior princess and the cold Queen and Sansa feels the closest to crying she has in years and takes in the scent of oil and horse and sweat on Arya and draws back and fixes a glare on her guards. "What were you thinking simply letting the princess in and keeping her in the cold without first having bathed before meeting? How did your mothers raise you?" she gave a sniff, and turns on her heel and allows Arya to follow her with a smirk on her lips. "I'll take care of the bath myself, as obviously everyone in my employment is incapable of basic courtesies."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wild children of the North are grounded once more.

Arya's off with the knight blacksmith that's employed in the castle (Gendry Arya reminds her with a roll of her eyes). To be honest Sansa is almost glad. A bastard he may be and lands he may not have but Arya is never going to have children, never going to keep a castle's books, never check any coin except in her purse. And as long as the smith stays in Winterfell, Arya stays. 

 

With an amused smile on her face (that didn't quite reach her eyes) Sansa makes her way down to the stable and nodded at the stable hand who quickly fetches her horse. 

 

One of her Queensguard (Ser Brienne of Tarth, her mothers sworn and now her own) accompanies her, swinging one of her own long legs over her horse as Sansa does the same (Sansa may be tall and thin and long but the blonde woman is taller and longer). 

 

They ride out of the gates of Winterfell, and into the green lands outside. The snow has mostly melted now and Winter has come, and it is now summer and summer means that the chill is being chased from her home. 

 

As the Queen of the North rides out she can't help the grin that is lifted to her face. The cold doesn't bother her - it comforts her and as it whips her hair around her head like a halo, like something other worldly, she spots a figure riding towards them, a streak on a giant . . . _wolf_. 

 

Sansa's breath catches in her throat and her eyes look over the frame of a boy - a man - on the back of a _direwolf_. Her heart raises it's beat, pounding fast in her chest, it's ribs a cage, and she tries to calm herself (tries oh how she tries). But the boy - younger than her and Arya and just the right age she can't help but think - jumps off the back of the wolf as she and Brienne approach. "Halt!" The Knight of the Queensguard calls out in protest of the boy nearing her Queen. 

 

But Sansa's eyes drift over the boy and his figure and her breath catches and she presses a hand to her mouth, and pulls herself down from her horse (she's done worse than dismount from a horse herself), and walks over to him, although the part of her heart that is still a girl trembles and wishes desperately to run, and she begs herself to remain calm to remain a Queen. 

 

And the boys eyes moisten (those wild, wild eyes for a wild, wild thing) and he calls "Mama?" out, heartbreaking and bittersweet. 

 

Sansa shakes her head, and her eyes are prickling in a way they haven't  since Arya's return, her eyes are prickling because this dear boy, this poor boy, thinks she's his mother, his mother with red hair. Brienne looks at her questioningly, but for once she ignores the woman who has become one of her dearest friends and advisors and moves towards the lad with long strides. "No," and for once her voice comes out clear when she wants it to. "I am the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the Queen of the North. And you?"

 

"Sansa?" And the boys eyes are so wide that she can't bear to keep up this pretence anymore and her heart is aching and everything is telling her that this boy _must_ the one, must be him. So she wraps her eyes around this one, this little piece of wild and unwavering. 

 

"Rickon?" Her voice trembles and the boy wraps his arms around her fiercely, tightly in a way that is sure to break her if she is a lesser woman. 

 

"Sansa," the boy replies and it's Rickon, it's Rickon, it's Rickon. It's the littlest Stark boy, back from the dead and it's her baby brother. 

 

After the two have hugged for so long that even Sansa can feel her toes chilling (Brienne's lips are blue despite her many layers) the two decide that they should head back to the castle, and tell the rest (tell Arya they both think). 

 

The two ride off, Rickon on Shaggywolf and Sansa on her horse, racing to the castle in  a bout of childlike behaviour and Sansa thinks that Rickon may not be brought up in Winterfell, may not be educated, but he is the North, and the North remembers. Rickon shall fit in. He already does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't even know what im doing with this flowery prose but whatever


	3. bran

Sansa's eyes catch over Arya, Arya her wild and uncourtly sister. Dressed in the men's clothing she favours, she is nothing like Sansa. Except she is. Her eyes are the same, they show the same harshness, the same cruelties they have seen, they have experienced. They are both finished with this world, they have both decided that they will not wait for others to take care of them, they will not wait for others to be kind and to take pity on the poor girls of the North. So they found their own ways to defend themselves, with different knives. Arya has her mens clothing, and the hair (it's grown out so much since she's been under Sansa's hair, is long enough to braided now, compared to the short boy's haircut she appeared in), she has her swords and words that Sansa doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand (yes she is just as dark and twisted but Arya is her sister and sometimes it's just better if she pretends that Arya is still the sweet little girl, the sweet summer child she once knew). 

But Sansa has her gowns and ribbons and sharp words and her embroidery needles and she has women she's paying, Mya and Brienne and Asha, the few Sand Sisters she's persuaded to come North, and Arya herself, who sometimes begs to be let into her room late at night and patrols with Nymeria when she's restless. 

And yet Arya seems to feel like taking herself and he worries to another. The smith Gendry, (Ser Gendry Sansa absentmindedly adds) has been spending a lot of time with her. Arya mentioned once, that they knew each other a series of seasons ago, when they were still travelling to Robb (sweet, dear Robb of the Summery North). She said that they protected each other. 

Funny wasn't it, how the sister who always wished for knights and pretty things in summer romances would find herself alone and cold and bitter, facing husbands a many. The only true knight who'd ever saved her (beautiful Sansa, lovely Sansa - no one ever called Arya that) was Brienne of Tarth, and they were both only thinking of men. Instead Arya, who had wanted to be the knight, found a knight herself, who was sweet and let her call him stupid of all things. 

Because things like that happened didn't they? And maybe it's for dreams that she's forgotten, but Sansa ignores the little woman who tries to sneak out the door of her rooms, even as Mya nudges Sansa to bring it to her attention. (Sansa knows that Arya thinks she's good, but she's better). 

Then they're sewing and Sansa can almost imagine Jeyne is sitting next to her and they're giggling and there are whispers about horsefaces and the latest knight to visit, with golden hair and a matching golden helm. But instead she has Arya and Rickon back and she has her Queensguard, her fierce Queensguard which she loves she thinks to herself (faintly she can hear the words of wisdom shared with her once - love little, sweet dove. The more people you love, the more vulnerable you are - but she shakes the thoughts from her head and reminds herself anyway that if she were a bird now, she'd be a crow . . . or a hawk. And she would rip all of their eyes out). 

Brienne knocks on the door, entering with a respectful my lady (she's a woman of honour and respect and courtesies - she's almost too like the girl Sansa, the Sansa that was still a little dove, the Sansa that talked about stories ending with Shae or was wed to the Imp or the Sansa that travelled and asked to be Catlyn of all things). "Your Grace - they have found a rapist," Brienne said unflinchingly, although her face clouded over. 

Sansa stood herself and set her shoulders back. She was a queen and a king both, the sole protecter of the North. She was the father and the mother, and she would protect and punish. 

They make their way out of the castle of Winterfell, to the town, where a girl stands, a knife held against the throat of a man much older than her and much bigger. A boy stands beside her, and some of the knights, the guards, of Winterfell stand nearby. 

"Your Grace," the boy acknowledges with a dip in his head. 

Sansa arches an eyebrow at him - such a young man who didn't bow to a queen? - and he continues. 

"My sister and I were travelling when she was attacked by this man," the boy stepped forward with grace that Sansa herself was impressed by. 

"You let your sister carry the weapons?" Sansa heard one of the men nearby ask. 

"She's better with a bow than I could ever hope to be," the boy smiled once more, his teeth flashing, and the man his sister was holding captive struggled a bit, only for the knife held to his neck to draw a small amount of blood. 

"My sister carries the House's weapons also," Sansa heard herself say, her eyes flickering over to the girl, who looked to be an uncertain age, but still young. A woman, but a young woman. "The man tried to force himself on you?" She asked the girl. 

"He forgot that some girls carry knives," the girl responded by way of agreeing. 

"The Gods ask for death of one that takes advantage of a woman," Sansa declared. "Tomorrrow," she nodded at the guards. Her eyes flickered over the pair, even as the guards took the man from the girl. "Come dine with me tonight."

"Your Grace - we have another traveling with us," the boy said, taking charge once more. 

"Bring him as well," she said briskly and walked back to the castle, leaving her guards to hurry to catch up with her, having not paid attention. 

_

When the pair entered the hall they were not alone. Another, with hair as dark as night and lips as red as blood and skin as white as snow and eyes as wild as a wolves was with them. He did not walk, instead being pushed on a type of cart which the girl was pushing. Her eyes flickered over it and the dart of recognition chilled her. She had never seen her brother in a cart but there was no doubting it was him. A hand held up, she called for silence in the hall, and walked to the entryway of the hall, where her guests still stood. Arya trailed behind her with an uncertain look on her face, her hand on her sword that rested on her hip. The two stood watching, Brienne and Asha watching carefully, their eyes tracing the outline of the girls bow and the sword she carried. 

But it was little Rickon who called out, breaking the silence, with a cry of "Bran!" before he neared his brother and wrapped his arms firmly around his waist. 

"Is this my brother returned or is this a witchery?" Sansa asked, her voice harsh, although she wished, she wished, she wished so very hard that it was him. But look alike's (and others who looked nothing alike) had emerged all over the kingdom, claiming to be a lost Stark or Baratheon or Frey or Tully or Lannister or Martell. Jeyne had even been pronounced as Arya and been wed under that name. 

"Sansa," Bran said, his eyes reaching hers. 

It was Bran, sweet Bran and Arya barrelled into his arms, wrapping her own tightly around his shoulders and kissed his forehead in a not very Arya way. "Bran," Sansa's little sister breathed out, and hugged him tightly. 

And Sansa smiled wickedly, her lips curling up. Yes a Stark would always be in Winterfell. Or in this case, four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sansa my baby


	4. jon

 

Sansa is almost entirely sure that her family is becoming a family once more. 

 

Bran helps her with the books and rides with her and their siblings. Arya sits with her in her solar as Sansa sews and keeps watch, even as Sansa tries to persuade her to let Arya make her a dress. Rickon, her wild little wolf boy, sits with Arya and Sansa some days, when they can spare their time from helping others, helping with building restorations and Arya chopping wood for the thawing winter nights. 

 

And when Sansa walks out to her execution, her dress trailing behind her in a stream of cold, ice blue (new - Lady Margaery sends gifts from the south), with her wolves, her wolf pack behind her, her smile is cold, red lips drawn into a wicked smirk, that has the rapist visibly gulping. 

 

Oh he can gulp but what will it do? Sansa smiles to herself.  She has had enough of others, of men in particular, dictating how and what she should do, and how and what she should act and what (whom) her body belongs to.

 

Folding her hands in front of her in her sweetest, most ladylike way, she crouches down to whisper in the ear of the man her men hold down, an innocent smile on her face. "I shall pray for you," she whispers, and steps away, her hair being tossed around by the wind, glimmering in all of its natural glory. 

 

"Pray for what?" The rapist gasps out, his throat dry. 

 

Why would they bother feeding him? Why would they bother giving him water? They already have limited supplies (she will have to send south to the Dragon Queen) and so why would they spend it on one that was merely going to be executed. 

 

"That the gods see no mercy for you, for you deserve none," Sansa's voice doesn't stammer, and she doesn't wince, even as one of the men holding the man does. "That you burn for eternity and no one helps you. I have decreed that you shall die for your crimes and so my sword shall deliver." 

 

Sansa steps back and Arya steps forward, a smirk on her face that is truly cruel. This is not the Arya that she once knew, but this Arya can protect herself, can protect her, and gods know they both need it. 

 

So when Sansa gives a slight nod in her sisters direction, Arya swings the sword down and blood smatters onto Sansa's cheek. Without grimacing once, Sansa swipes the liquid away with her dainty, pale, finger. She's seen much worse, been in much worse, grime. 

 

"Well?" She raises an eyebrow, perfectly arched with it's kissed by fire hairs and her men scramble quickly to collect the body. 

 

"Your Grace," Mya rides up, her horse galloping, and needn't bother to unsaddled as she calls out. Her skirt fly around her as does her hair, in the unbridled and untamed fashion that ladies of the Queens court are now adopting faster than ever. 

 

"Mya," Sansa nods and pulls herself over her horses back, and clamps her legs on either side of the beasts torso. 

 

"A rider has entered Winterfell," Mya grins, in an almost childish way. 

 

"Oh really? And they chose not to alert the Queen?" Sansa frowns, and Arya's already taken off with Rickon and Bran is shortly to follow. 

 

"I think you'll agree that he needn't," Mya takes off, and her horse runs for Winterfell, and even if Sansa had the energy she would never dare tell Mya off for her bad court manners (wouldn't dream of it) and so she kicks her horse to action and follows her friend. 

 

_

 

When Sansa arrives in Winterfell in a rush of icy blue and fire on the wild horse she tamed, she finds that the rider who entered Winterfell is no strange, or fat Lord, no Knight who has an unsuited sword and too shiny armour. 

 

Instead as she dismounts she sees that in front of her is one of the few men in the world who she has been close to who has never tried to use her for his own gain, who has never abused her, who has never mistreated her. 

 

She was never his favourite, and he never hers but she dismounts still and looks him in the eye as he tries to bow. "Your Grace, the Lady Stark of Winterfell -"

 

"Rise," she commands, and a smile takes to her red lips, a smile of warmth that they rarely see this far North, and certainly never on her lips. This is a smile for family, for friends, for the loved. And so she bestows a kiss onto his lips, an action she would never have completed but a year ago. "Rise, my cousin Jon. You needn't ask for a thing. What ruler would I be if I was to turn away my own kin?"

 

And so he rises, and she wraps her arms around him, and he her, and unlike all the hugs she bestows in front of her court and people, hugs that are given to reassure the receiver, this is a hug to reassure the giver, to make her feel warm and wanted and Gods she needs the feeling of someone.

 

And he smells and looks like her Lord father and he smells and looks like a boy and everything between and he has new scars (as does she) and his eyes aren't as bright as they once were (nor hers) and they both have souls which contain a darkness that they had not known as children (but they're not children now are they?). 

 

And then Arya joins them, with a cry of Jon, and brings little Rickon with her and Bran is nearby, and they are ohm, and inside the gates and gods shall be damned if they ever leave because Sansa will tear them apart limb by limb. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's the end! :(. yeah i love this stor with all my heart and if i feel like it (and you guys want it) i may come back and give some oneshots as a part of this

**Author's Note:**

> New chapter shall follow. First fanwork of AO3 - so what did you think? Obviously this is post series/ my endgame. Sansa/ Queen of the North is my favourite and Arya/Gendry holds a place in my heart.


End file.
